What Sarah Said
by FeathersMcStrange
Summary: Not an OC fic or slash. Rated for a couple bad words. Sam was hurt, and for once big brother couldn't make it all better again. All he could do was look around the cleanly starched, deafeningly silent waiting room, thinking about what Sarah said.


**Random little songfic I bashed out at around midnight after hearing a song I thought sounded very Dean-like. Hope you all enjoy the little bit of fic that I'm hoping will cheer you out of your season seven 'Cas-is-crazy-Bobby's gone, shit what's happened to the Winchesters this time blues.**

**We can all use a bit of fluff, I think. Enjoy.**

**NOT A DEATHFIC BY ANY MEANS!**

**REPEAT!**

**NOT A DEATHFIC BY ANY MEANS! NO MATTER WHAT IT MAY SEEM LIKE!**

**Song belongs to Death Cab For Cutie, and it's called 'What Sarah Said'.**

* * *

_And it came to me then that every plan _

_Is a tiny prayer to father time_

_As I stared at my shoes in the ICU _

_That reeked of piss and 409_

Dean twisted his fingers around the edge of his shirt, looking blankly around at the ICU waiting room. They had a plan. They had a _plan_. But the plan had failed, as plans had a tendency to do, and Sam got hurt.

His Sammy. His little Sammy got hurt, and hurt bad.

The older hunter could remember staring down at the crumpled body and freezing. He had just stood there, and he could have sworn his heart literally stopped dead in his chest. Then he could move again, and he almost started to hyperventilate.

No matter what he had done, Sam wouldn't wake up, just laid there bleeding. From his head, his chest, his leg... God, _everywhere_. He had been barely breathing, his pulse thready and uncertain.

Letting out a sound that was supposed to be a sigh but came out a sob, Dean's head dropped to his hands. He was stuck in a waiting room that smelled awful, and was too loud, and he...

He was stuck in a waiting room while his baby Sammy was in surgery. And there was nothing he could do.

_And I rationed my breaths as I said to myself _

_That I'd already taken too much today_

_As each descending peak on the LCD _

_Took you a little farther away from me_

_Away from me_

They finally let him in to see Sam.

Dean walked through the door slowly, trying to pace his rapid, uneven breaths. Why should he be taking so much air, when his little brother needed it more than he did?

Dropping to his knees beside the bed, Dean reached out and grabbed Sam's hand. He didn't care how much he would have made fun of Sam for doing this very thing. All he cared about was that the spikes on the machine were getting smaller every second, and the beeping was too slow.

Every time the monitor beeped, every time the pixelated line rose lower than the last, Sammy was a little farther gone. He couldn't help himself.

Dean started to cry, bent over as if in prayer, Sam's hand cradled in both of his as if it were made of glass. One wrong move and he would break.

Whispered words of meaningless comfort and hollow 'you're gonna be just fine's floated from Dean's lips and across the frozen hospital air. The world was holding it's breath, waiting.

Waiting for Sam Winchester to die.

_Amongst the vending machines and year-old magazines _

_In a place where we only say goodbye_

_It stung like a violent wind that our memories depend _

_On a faulty camera in our minds_

They sent him out when Sam started crashing. There was a bleed in his brain, and they had to rush him back into the operating room. Not a word had been said to Dean aside from 'Sir, you need to leave. Now.'

He looked around, fingers tugging on his short hair. There were vending machines, with happy cartoon faces on brightly colored candy wrappers.

God _damn_ but who's idea was the freaking _cheerful_ vending machines? More to the point, how could a vending machine be cheerful? How could those faces on those chocolates possibly be smiling when his Sammy was under the knife, possibly never to return?

Magazines from last spring sat on the low table, advertising articles such as '100 Ways To Spice Up Your Love Life', 'Your Monthly Horoscope', and 'Is Pink Really The New Black?'

None of those titles interested Dean in the least. At any other time he would have scoffed at the lame titles, possibly flipped through one of the 'zines out of pure boredom. But not now.

All that he could think about was Sam.

Little baby Sammy, gurgling happily up at him from his crib.

Toddler Sammy, saying his first word ('Dean!').

Kindergarten Sammy, worrying about making friends.

It went on, until with a horrifying sinking feeling Dean realized that these were only memories, the details of which were getting foggy.

If Sam died, this would be all he had left. Memories. And it hurt like Hell to know that those memories would one day fade, leaving nothing behind but a hint of a dimpled smile and a bright, sunny laugh.

_But I knew that you were a truth I would rather lose _

_Than to have never lain beside at all_

_And I looked around at all the eyes on the ground _

_As the TV entertained itself_

Despite the pain, Dean knew that it was better than the alternative. Never having known Sammy at all. He couldn't even imagine life without his giant little brother tripping over his huge-ass feet, looking up at him with big brown puppy eyes when he laughed. He couldn't imagine not having grown up with a little kid shouting 'De, De, De, De, De come look!' at him every few minutes.

Glancing about him, Dean saw more family members. Friends. Mothers, fathers, aunts, uncles, brothers, sisters, grandparents, classmates... All manner of people with loved ones right where his little Sammy was, dying without a thing they could do.

None of them spoke. A few cried, soft whimpers and sobs that split the silence. The silence that was so deafening that it covered up the sound of some soap opera playing on a television nobody was watching. Their eyes instead were fascinated with the floor, counting tiles and tracing cracks that were a welcome but brief distraction.

Speaking was taboo. An unwritten rule was scrawled across the walls and floor, in giant graffiti script.

'This is the worst day of all of your lives. Rule number one. Keep your mouth shut in the waiting room.'

_'Cause there's no comfort in the waiting room_

_Just nervous pacers bracing for bad news_

_And then the nurse comes round _

_And everyone will lift their heads_

The waiting room of a hospital was possible the most morbid place Dean knew. But he understood the silence, he understood the tears, and he understood the silent prayers, inaudible cries of 'Please, dear Lord, don't let my baby die.'

He understood because it was his baby too, his little baby brother who was dying.

A few people paced back and forth, and Dean was surprised that there was no huge, deep trench worn into the floor by a thousand and one pairs of terrified shoes. Parents waited to hear that their kids were in a coma. Siblings waited to be told they were gonna be only children from now on. Friends waited to hear that they would be pushing a wheelchair to first period in a couple weeks.

A nurse comes in now and then, clearing her throat and breaking the unwritten (bright red block lettered) unspoken (screamed and never ignored) rule.

Everyone looks up when a nurse comes in. The condemned stepping up for their turn at the guillotine. Bracing themselves for the bad news.

_But I'm thinking of what Sarah said _

_That "Love is watching someone die"_

_So who's going to watch you die?_

Yet Dean didn't look up with the rest, didn't even flinch, when Nurse Abi walked over and said softly, 'Your brother is dying.' Instead his thoughts were filled with his September-of-tenth-grade girlfriend Sarah, who had once told him that 'Love is watching someone die.'

And as he walked into the room, seeing his little Sammy's pale, cold face, and the dipping blips of the heart monitor, Dean wondered.

With Sam gone, who would watch him die? Who loved him enough to hold his hand when his time ran out.

"I'm so sorry Sammy."

* * *

Dean woke from the nightmare with a start, the ghost of his brother's clammy hand between his.

His first instinct was the one he followed, hopping out of his bed and quickly crossing the few feet between his bed and Sam's. Leaning down, Dean put his ear close enough that he could feel his little brother's slow, steady, deep breaths ruffle his hair.

"You're okay," he whispered, tangling his fingers in Sam's long, floppy brown hair that was the same color as his giant pleading puppy dog eyes.

Thanking heaven that Sammy was a heavy sleeper, Dean smoothed his thumb over his brother's warm cheek. His head dipped down until his forehead lightly touched Sam's own.

"You're okay."

Dean stayed there for close to fifteen minutes, memorizing every feature of his baby brother's face. He looked down at Sam, at the boy he had raised into a brave, headstrong young man. This boy he was so incredibly proud of. This boy he never _ever _wanted to even think of losing.

"Sammy..." he whispered, tugging the wayward blanket up to Sam's chin and lightly brushing his fingers over his hair one last time. "Please don't make me watch you die."

Sam's eyes fluttered and he stirred, turning over and mumbling something. Dean shook his head, snapping his mask back up at the first hint that someone else might possibly bear witness to his momentary meltdown.

Yet the haunting beeps rang in his ears, and the unwritten rule in giant red block letters danced across his eyes.

So he stayed there, sitting on the edge of that bed, until it started to get light out, and Sam started to wake. Just watching him breathe, listening to the steady, soft sighs.

Just in case.


End file.
